


Light, Carry Me Home

by CosmicPeppermintLatte



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, M/M, More tags to be added, Violence Described, death knight au, necromancer!jean, paladin!marco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-21 19:58:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7401787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicPeppermintLatte/pseuds/CosmicPeppermintLatte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A deadly ambush leaves Jean and several mages dead. However, he is called upon by a powerful lich to rise again and wreak havoc on the living. After months of heading his master’s call, bringing death and destruction to his homeland, he escapes in hopes of righting all the wrongs the undead had caused. Together with a bright and kind-hearted Paladin named Marco, they fight to restore their home and bring peace back to their broken land.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

For the past two years Jean had lived a very lonely and isolated life.  A three days’ walking journey from the town he grew up in, shunned and scorned by the people who lived there.  He was an untouchable now.  An abomination set lose on the world.

Jean was dead.

He was killed in an ambush meant for the leader of his group, an Archmage named Oluo.  The attack was successful.  An explosion of arcane fire flung Jean and his companions from their horses.  The attackers took swords to his fellow magi but left him motionless on the ground.  After the screams had died out and the voices had gone, Jean could do nothing by lie there face down in the dirt in pure agony.  He was going to die there, he knew that much.  They were still days from the capitol with not a watch tower in sight.  His body told him his hip bone was broken and the pain prevented even the slightest bit of his magic to reach his fingertips.  He faded in and out of consciousness for Light knows how long.  Then finally, alongside five of his fellow mages, Jean Kirstein died.

When he opened his eyes again, he had already known what happened to him.  The world no longer looked the same.  Any hint of vibrant colors had been drained from his eyesight and were filled with nothing but dark greys and blues.  He felt no pain, no temperature, no feeling but the wisps of dark cold magic that was not his own.  He knew it was necromancy. 

“Rise my child…”  A voice seeped through his skull, foul and dark.

Jean stood.  His surroundings were frozen and bare.  Towering snow covered peaks howled with the wind, singing a song that carried despair, anguish, and loss. He looked down, the robes he remembered wearing had been replaced with thick binding leather that clung too close.  He knew nothing of his location, but he remembered, he remembered mostly everything.  And he shouldn’t have.  All his life he had studied magic in all of its forms.  His father and every head before him had been a High Magus.  Had he lived, Jean would have been the same.  So he knew of necromantic magic, knew its horrors and how it worked, knew that its victims were only mere shells of what they had once been after they had risen again.  They were nameless, mindless, and did solely what their commander whispered to them.

Knowing there was no choice, he followed his master’s instructions.  He counted six months’ time living in that arctic hell.  There were others of course.  Dead humans, dead elves, dead beasts, all wandering drooling husks.  Some of them truly were abominations.  Crudely sewn together rotting flesh and missing jaws, traveling long distances in large groups to wreak havoc among the living and bring back new soldiers in return.  Jean was lucky he supposed.  His reanimated body still had a shattered hip that could no longer heal.  It gave him a limp but still no pain.  He was charged with larger tasks: handling supplies, stabling newly risen death chargers which were once noble war horses, and the most important task he was given was to plot the next point of attack on the living.  For three months he did so.  Using his now slightly distorted voice that hummed with the essence of death, he heeded his master’s command and issued five strikes on different villages and towns though his heart trembled against it.  He was no killer, nor had he ever dreamed he would be involved with an undead army.

Years of mastery with arcane magic enabled him use of a crystal ball in which he used to watch the dead devour and destroy.  Even though the magic that flowed through him was different now, he could still use it, control it, and bend it to his will.  No longer could it mask his presence in a crowd, nor did it send sparks coursing through him that would form at his fingertips into red hot balls of energy.  Instead, he learned quickly that his cold fingers could now spread rapid death and disease with a single brush.  During this time, he also learned that he himself could whisper to the undead around him and make his own puppets arise from half eaten corpses.  He believed there was a reason he had kept his memories.  He had to leave that place.

No sooner did that revelation hit him, he limped to the stables where the chargers were kept and choose a steed that still bore a broken emblem of his capitol.  Then, with commands from his disembodied master shrieking in his skull, he kicked the charger into a gallop and fled.

He didn’t know how long they stayed at that breakneck pace.  His darkened charger ran until the snow had long since faded from the background.  His master’s calls had gotten weaker and weaker with distance and once he trotted into his kingdom’s territory, any hold his master had on him had snapped.  The two continued on their trek for another four days.  Time was lost on them.  Neither he nor his charger needed ample rest.  They became fatigued and rested short periods.  To function, Jean’s body now needed the flesh of the living or the dead to sustain himself.  Back at his hellish camp there were always corpses lying around, but now he realized he had to hunt for himself.  He vowed as long as he had control of his mind he would not kill another intelligent being.  He stuck to woodland creatures and even then he picked ones who were sick and dying.

Jean saw a full moon cycle before he reached familiar ground.  He decided he would go to his capitol, to the magic quarter and inform his father of what had happened.  Also, with this new siege of undead that had never been a big issue before, needed to be addressed by their king and his military.  He couldn’t bear the thought of the kingdom he was born and raised falling into the hands of an undead scourge.       

As he neared his city, the place of his death came into view.  From a distance, he could see a large grave marker along the path.  The names of he and his party were engraved on the large stone tablet along with bunches of dead and dying flowers laying at its base.  A spark of emotion hit him: pain and sadness.  His emotions had been dulled along with his vision, but deep in his bones he could feel a phantom pain.  He dismounted and sunk to his knees in front of his grave, clutching at the dead flowers that lay there.  He knew the trees around him were green and lush but he could no longer see them that way.  He stumbled with his charger to the crystal like lake that lay not far from there and stared down at his reflection.  The last time he saw his own face was the morning he set out with that group to the capitol.  He remembered his sharp amber eyes and near constant smirk.  The boy in the reflection of the lake was not him.  His cheeks had become sunken and his eyes now were ablaze with light blue pulsing magic that showed he was now dead.  All of the other undead creature’s eyes glowed that same shade of blue.  He covered his mouth and a loud sob escaped him.  His eyes no longer had any tears for him, but the gasps and cries shook his body no less.

He still tried to return, but what he got was far from a warm welcome.  He should have expected as much, and in the back of his mind, he did.  As soon as his charger’s ghastly white hooves clacked through his city’s front gate he was held at rifle point by his king’s footmen.  He tried to explain, but they could not be reasoned with. The men refused to send for his father, and no more than five minutes passed before the townspeople were running him off the grounds with guns and rotten fruit.

His chest ached.  He slumped forward against his listless steed as they wandered farther and farther from his former home, his former kingdom, his former life.  Suddenly, the reality came crashing down on him much harder than it had at the lake.  Soundless screams fell past his lips as he kicked his charger into a full speed gallop.  He cursed everything.  He cursed the bastards that caused his and his party’s deaths.  He cursed the townspeople for not even bothering to listen to him.  Most of all, he cursed the dammed lich that brought him back to life.  No curse on a living soul could be worse than that of undeath.

Rage and despair flooded his mind.  The cold magic surging through him burst forth, pulling bones from the earth around him.  Skeletons broke free from the soil heeding their new master’s call.  He kept driving forward with his increasing number of scourge ghouls hot at his heels.  After hours of running he finally came to a stop.  There was nothing in his view but a small abandoned farmstead.  Dusk had fallen and not even the lights from the city were viable.  He leapt from his charger and went to inspect the small structure.  The barn was completely empty and the small house looked only recently vacated.  That was fine.  Should its owner return, they would politely be asked to leave or he would let his new ghouls have their way with them.

Solitude.  This would be his new life.  He would dedicate his days to honing his new skills.  It was still a form of magic after all, and magic could always be mastered.  There wasn’t any other choice.  His title was no longer mage, but necromancer.  He could do that.  He could adapt.  He could manage this cursed life.  He could survive.


	2. Light's Warrior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean's first visitor smashes through his only line of defense. Enter Marco, paladin of the Light.

Two years in isolation had passed Jean by like nothing.  Not a soul came after him.  Nobody, he assumed, even bothered looking.  His father could have found him if he wanted to.  Any magi could have.  Yet, nothing.  It didn’t bother him as much as he thought it might.  His powers grew stronger.  His touch could now spread death and infection to entire forests like wildfire.  His ghouls were stronger now too, taking on packs of dogs alone and leaving nothing but bloody corpses.  He had indeed become a powerful necromancer. 

It was during that second year when he got his first visitor.  His ghouls informed him of a fast approaching intruder on horseback.  He instructed his minions to scare him off to no avail.  The intruder kept coming, cutting down Jean’s undead with no difficulty.  In a half hours’ time there was a fully armored Paladin at Jean’s doorstep. 

Jean emerged from his small home and summoned the remainder of his ghouls to his side.  He counted six.  There had been eighteen.  This paladin had already slaughtered twelve of his undead minions and by the looks of it, he hadn’t even broken a sweat.  Jean glared at the man best he could.  He tried desperately to avoid his _former_ king’s seal that adorned the man’s massive shield and hung at the neck of his mount that wore as much armor as he did.  The sharp sting of despair tightened in his chest at the thought of his lost life, but the sight of a grand looking hammer being raised in his direction abruptly snapped him from his thoughts.  It glowed garishly with holy light so intense Jean’s entire body unwillingly flinched back.

“What in Light’s name brings you here scourge?”  The man spat, voice dripping with venom.

Jean took a step back.  For the first time in his second life his heart remembered fear.  The six meager ghouls he had left in his control snarled forward.  The paladin didn’t even blink.

The man stepped closer. “Answer me, beast.” 

Jean didn’t answer, he couldn’t.  Fear was a powerful emotion.  Forgetting his pact to never kill another person, he commanded his ghouls forth ordering them to take the paladin’s head.  As he fled toward the barn, he heard the shrieks of his minions and the crunch of bone.  Stumbling through the door, he cursed his bum leg that would not carry him properly.  Without hesitation, Jean’s charger stepped out to him and desperately he tried to pull himself up, but as soon as he got one foot into the saddle a large hand grabbed him by the shoulder and flung him to the ground.  All of the air was knocked from his body.  He wheezed, turning on his side and making one last attempt to escape, but one of the paladin’s plated boots connected hard with his stomach, stilling his movements.  It was over, again.  Jean’s cursed second life was over and he could only pray that the Light would have mercy on his soul.  A single hand lifted him by the neck and slammed him hard into the thick wooden wall.  He could see the shining hammer gripped tight and ready to decent upon him.

“What is your name?” The paladin bit out. 

“J-Jean.”  He shut his eyes tight and braced himself for the impact.  One, two, moments passed before the hand released him and he fell to the hard ground.  Jean dared to look back up with his mouth slightly agape.  The other man still looked down on him with eyes filled with scorn and hatred but the hammer had dropped back to his side and the brilliant light it had been omitting had faded into a warm hue.

“Is it true that the lich has no hold on your mind?”

Jean blinked.  Was it true?  He hadn’t heard even the slightest whisper of his master’s voice since he left that icy wasteland years ago.  So he nodded, not trusting his words, let alone his voice.

Without missing a beat, the paladin continued.  “Where do your loyalties lie?”

The question weighed down heavily on him.  Did he even have loyalties anymore?  He had escaped from the grounds of his master whom he was never loyal to begin with.  Then, there was his king.  The king he had grown up serving and who’s men had rejected him and run him from the only place he’d ever called home. 

He decided then hated them both.  Staring directly into the paladin’s eyes he replied, “My loyalties lie with myself.” 

For a long moment both of them were silent.  Slowly, the paladin nodded.   “Then perhaps I should ask where your morals lie?”

That was a better question.  Jean’s body relaxed slightly as his eyes drifted to the glowing eyes of his steed.  “I don’t kill people.”  He started.  “I only take what I need, and if I take more I always wait for the land to replenish itself.”  He could still feel the man’s eyes on him, but it wasn’t like he had anything to hide.  He spoke true.  He never killed anything unless he needed its flesh.  The forests he let death touch were always given time to heal.  He may be cold but he was far from heartless.

The paladin extended a hand to him.  “Then maybe you could help us?”  Jean looked from the hand to the man’s face, really looking at him for the first time.  His features were no longer sharp with anger.  He had tan skin with a light dust of freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks, ink black hair cut short into a militaristic under cut, and big eyes that probably beamed when he smiled, but were now dull, tired.  Jean took the hand and let himself be pulled to his feet.  Now that he really looked at the person in front of him he realized, this was no man, just a boy.  A boy that was probably not much older than him.  He still stood taller and broader, but his face was still round with youth with eyes that have probably seen more in his years than some men have seen in their entire lives. 

Together they made their way back to the small house.  Jean surveyed the damage on his ghouls.  They lay broken and scattered across the open yard.  Some with smashed skulls, others with missing limbs and splintered cracks along their bleach white bones.  The boy’s mount also stood atop one of them, heavy hooves crushing into an empty eye socket.  As the walked, Jean could feel the paladin’s eyes on him again.  He was probably noticing his limp, suddenly he was self-conscience.  Despite the fact he was literally a walking corpse, he still felt awkward about his now permanent disability. 

Once inside, they both took a seat at what once probably served as a kitchen table but was now a desk for Jean’s notes.  The paladin stared blankly around the inside of Jean’s home.  It still looked as if a living person resided there.  The bed in the corner was made, no spider webs or dust, even the hearth had traces of burnt wood that had recently been put out.  Jean tried to do things as if he never died.  Although he couldn’t feel the warmth from the hearth, every week he would set out to find fresh firewood to light it.  He read all the books the previous owner had left and kept them orderly and clear of dust.  Doing things like this made him feel like he was still human.  It let him keep his sanity, even if in some sense he was lying to himself. 

The boy’s voice suddenly filled the room.  “My name is Marco.”  He sounded different now that he wasn’t yelling.  His body slumped as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from his shoulders.  He looked lost, beaten, and desperate.  “I… apologize, for my actions.  I realize attacking someone whom I’m asking aid from isn’t in very good taste.”

Jean almost felt sympathetic; however, he pushed that to the back of his mind.  “What could I possibly help you with?”  He meant his words to come out angry but his voice betrayed him and he simply sounded curious. 

Marco poked a finger at a tiny burn mark on the table top as he spoke.  “Recently, there’s been a number of scourge attacks on the northern plain fields.  The undead have actually taken…  Much of the ground there and turned many of it’s citizens into undead.  We’ve sent many troops after them, but so far nobody has been able to vanquish them.”  Speaking seemed painful.  Jean could tell by his distant gaze that this boy had probably been among these troops.  “Honestly, there didn’t seem like much hope, but I heard a rumor that there had been someone, an undead that traveled to Trost some time ago who was coherent enough to speak.  I’ve seen the undead myself, fought them.  I’ve never heard of one who was in control of their own mind.”  He paused and looked Jean in the eye.  “I did some research.  Found a grave of a young mage…”  Jean tensed and Marco’s eyes dropped back to the table.  “I talked to the people in Trost and they said what I had heard was a fairytale.  I didn’t believe that so I set off to look for this person myself.”

“You’ve found me.”  Marco peered sheepishly back at him as though guilty.  Jean’s heart fluttered in his chest.  Somebody had actually looked for him.  Even though it had been to ask him favors…  Somebody had acknowledged he existed.  He didn’t realize how truly lonely he was until this person came to him.  Maybe he could help this boy, maybe he could be a hero and his people would accept him once more, maybe-

“Are there other’s like you?  That can command skeletons like that?”

Jean’s heart sunk.  The meager emotions that he felt getting stronger and stronger suddenly dove down to the bottom of his stomach.  He frowned, suddenly remembering what ‘hurt’ felt like all over again.

“O- oh!  I didn’t mean….”

“Didn’t mean what!” he snapped.  “That you’ve come all this way to ask my help and find the secret band of necromancers that plague the area?  Do you think there’s secret meetings or outings?  That we hold parties for Hallows end?  Because no, there are none.  It’s just me.  Just me and the existence that’s been erased by those I USED to call my people!”  The chair he was sitting in clattered to the ground behind him as he stood and slammed his palms on the wooden table.  His shoulders shook and he could feel a sob caught in his throat.  He jammed his eyes shut willing it not to escape.  The last thing he needed right now was to look weak in front of this, this bastard!  He was just like them, Jean knew it.  Treating him like the devil then coming to him for help because they couldn’t do shit for themselves. 

When his eyes fell back on the boy again, he almost felt bad.  The boy was biting down none too gently on his bottom lip.  He looked almost remorseful, ready to pull back his words yet…

“I know I have no right to ask your aid after what’s happened to you, Jean.”  He relaxed slightly at the sound of his name.  “What’s happened to you is unjust.  Especially since….  Well, since you’re obviously not like them.  Like the rest of the undead I mean…”  In his mind, Jean scoffed.  But he knew what the boy meant.  It’s true he wasn’t like the lot of the scourge.  He wasn’t a bloodthirsty fiend who strived solely to serve his master and survive.  None the less the comment stung, just as the words of his former town’s people had.  The fact that he was no longer accepted as one of them is what pierced him deepest.

“And how are you different then, brave sir knight?”  Jean’s voice was sour with sarcasm.  “How do I know that you’re not just like the rest of the king’s men who’ve long since put my memory to rest?”

The boy physically recoiled.  The guilt in his eyes was back.  “There isn’t much I can do to prove myself, but know that I too have been rejected by my people…  My commander, my family, my entire church had me excommunicated…” 

Jean quirked an eyebrow.  “You expect my sympathy?”

Marco jolted up and vigorously shook his head.  “N- no of course not!  I just- I…”  His lip was trembling.  Okay, Jean thought, he should probably cut this kid some slack.  Jean was never a religious person, not in life, certainly not in death.  He was s strict believer in science and his own morals which he believed were enough.  Why Marco’s people had chosen to reject him was no concern of his.  But he saw the blinding holy light that beamed from the paladin’s hammer.  The Light’s power was real, and Jean could not discredit that.  However, it was apparent that the Light had chosen to put its trust the boy, no matter what his peers thought.  The Light wanted him, so why he was so shaken over the fact he was rejected by his people, Jean couldn’t understand.

Jean heaved a heavy sigh and crouched down to pick up the chair that that lay behind him.  He eased back into his seat, resting his chin in his palm “So what is it you’re asking of me then?” 

The boy peered up at him like a child that had just been scolded.  “People are dying.  Good innocent people are being slaughtered by the scourge.  And we can’t…  We haven’t been able to stop them.”

“So you’re asking me to take up arms for the people who cannot stand my very existence.”  He stated flatly.  The boy simply nodded.  Jean resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  “Okay then, why?  Give me a good reason why I should help.”

 “People don’t deserve to be hurt for no reason.”

Jean scoffed.  “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“I’ve got news for you kid.  This world is full of that shit.  This world killed me, it literally fucking killed me.  Then it threw me in the garbage for being an abomination.”  Suddenly Jean grinned and his blue eyes flared as he spoke.  “You know what?  I kind of like that word now, _abomination_.  It almost has a nice ring to it, no?”

Marco’s voice got to the point of pleading, “But there are women and children that are falling to these beasts!  Have you no compassion-?“

“The world showed no compassion to me!” He snarled. 

Heavy silence spread through the room.  Jean’s piercing gaze landed on Marco who seemed to be curling in on himself.  But Jean could see the glow of Marco’s hammer start to pulse.  Determination flashed in the boy’s eyes as he stood. 

“You’re right this world is awful.  People are cruel without purpose and shun those who are different.”  His voice rang strong as he closed in on Jean.  “But I can’t stand by just watching people die and lose their families when there may be something I can do!”

Jean stared up as him from where he sat, only slightly alarmed by the outburst.  “It’s seems you have experience standing by doing nothing, brave sir knight.”

Marco physically deflated and averted his gaze.  “No, not me.  I’ve never been one to watch others suffer when I can help.  But I have been on the other side.  I’ve been in trouble and locked eyes with bystanders that could have come to my aid but choose not to.”  Marco ran his hands through his short hair and paced toward the made up bed.  “People are shit…” He whispered. 

“Wow.  You’re filled with an awful lot of malice for such a holy man, brave sir knight.”

Marco picked up a stray book from the bedside table and thumbed through it.  “Perhaps you’re right.” 

Jean hummed, weighing his options.  He could help Marco.  His cause we indeed noble, almost pathetically so.  Jean knew nothing of the people of the northern plains other than they were made up of mostly farmers and traders, but that didn’t matter.  They were people of his former king no less.  They were also just people in general, beings Jean had come to loath.  But this boy, he was different.  He was good, too good probably.  For some reason he did want to help.  Not particularly the people this boy was trying to protect, but he wanted to help Marco. 

“I’ll help you.”  Jean said.  Marco turned to face him with the book still open in his palm.  “But you have to do something for me first.  You go into Trost and you get me a crystal ball from the magic quarter.  Then, you go to the war quarter and get me a two handed broad sword.”  Marco nodded at him but Jean cut him off with a wave of his hand.  “Next, you are to break into Archmage Kirstein’s home and in the furthest room on the left there will be a black trunk.  Inside this trunk there and two sets of robes and a false bottom containing three runes.  You are to take all three runes and the robes back with you.”  He visibly paled at that.

“I can’t just- “

“Lastly,” He interrupted.  “You are to bring the red colored rune and the broad sword to Hannes in Maker’s Square and have them enchanted.  Then, and only then, will I help your cause.”

“You’re asking me to steal?  I can’t possibly-?“

Again, Jean cut him off with a wave.  “It’s hardly stealing.  It’s not even borrowing.  The items belong to me.  I’m simply asking you to retrieve them.  I doubt anyone will even be there.  Nobody ever really was…”

Now Jean stood, walking over to Marco and plucking the book from his grasp.  “So, do we have a deal, brave sir knight?” 

“I…  You promise you’ll help me?”

“To the best of my abilities, yes.”

Marco reached out a hand to him.  He almost didn’t want to take it but did so anyway.  They shook on it and for a split second, Jean swore he could feel the warmth that radiated from Marco’s palm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos always appreciated!


	3. Light's Dilemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a tiring trial, Marco tries to gather what little information he can on the latest of the undead attacks. Unfortunately, Jean isn't of much help, but soon, they might uncover a way to finally put an end to the scourge.

Before he did anything else, Jean brought in the paladin’s tired horse.  Removing the mare’s armor wasn’t much of a problem, she didn’t make a fuss or mind when Jean’s chilled fingers brushed lightly against her coat.  Once he led her into the barn however, the problems started.  The mare made eye contact with Jean’s charger and let out a fierce shriek.  Trained hooves reared into the air as she bucked away, pulling harshly on the reigns Jean was using to lead her.  With great effort and a string of soft spoken words, he managed calm the horse into one of the stalls furthest from his undead companion who simply snorted, indifferent to the other animal.  The Chesnutt’s sturdy body pressed up tightly to the wall of the stall where she stood.

“Sorry girl.”  He cooed.  “I promise you he won’t bite.  I’ll get you some water and apples.  No need to fuss, just try to ignore him and get some sleep yeah?”  Jean swung the door closed and set out to fill up a pail of water and pick some fruit, leaving the mare whimpering behind him.  “If you’re even half as tired as your rider, Light knows you’ll need it…”

It took what little daylight was left for Jean to gather enough water and fruits for both Marco and his steed during their journey.  No doubt it would take them roughly five days to reach the northern plains even at a strong pace.  Setting down their food supplies by the door, Jean lit a candle and rolled the crystal ball closer to him.

“Now, let’s see what we’ve got in store for us, shall we?” Jean mumbled to himself, cupping a tentative hand over the side of the orb.

His mind couldn’t prepare him for what his eyes saw. Ruins. Hundreds of risen dead walked aimlessly amongst dying fields and broken farmsteads. Pitchforks lay bloodied and forgotten in overgrown grass.  The dead varied in all shapes and sizes. The bodies of old men and little girls alike, broken limbs and rotten flesh combed every inch of that dying land in search of more victims. Soldiers also laid among the fallen. Armored corpse walked along with civilians, searching.

There seemed to be none. The situation was much more dire than Jean had thought.

His gaze fixed on Marco’s sleeping form. How much of this did Marco actually know?  This place was lost.  There was no hope, all those people were already gone.

Jean wondered if the boy knew any of these people personally, if they had been family or friends.  He shook his head. It didn’t matter. The plains were lost. Jean would have to break the news to Marco somehow.

-

Marco awoke only a few hours later. Jean sat curled around a book by the window reading by the light of a single candle.

“I hope you plan on going back to sleep.” Jean said without bothering to look up. 

The paladin groaned as he sat up, scrubbing at his face. “I think I’ve slept long enough” he mumbled.  “Besides, the journey is long, we should get a head start before the sun gets too high.

“The sun won’t be up for hours. You ought to get more rest.”

“Time is of the essence Jean- “

The necromancer snaps his book shut. His shining blue eyes pierce right though Marco’s tired gaze. He hesitates, thinking of how to word the new found information. But after a moment, he decides to just come out with it. “Your plains are gone” he states coldly.

The other boy blinks at him. “What do you mean, the plains are gone…?”

“Exactly as I said.” Jean replies gathering himself and walking towards his crystal ball. “I’ll show you myself.”

Marco stills before regaining his composer and leaning closer to the crystal. Jean closes his eyes and lets energy pulse though his hands into the ball, bringing up an image.  Marco’s face goes white.

“That… can’t be true, your visions must be false. There’s no way that--“

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your plains and all of your fellow man there are lost.”

“There has to be something we can do. Perhaps there are survivors.”

“Survivors? Not even vultures would dare venture there now.”

“There has to be something…”

“Tell me, why are these plains so high on your list of priorities? Did you have kin there? A lover, perhaps?”

Marco clenches his fists and stares down at them looking for a response. “It was the last stand.”

Jean raises an eyebrow and lets his crystal dim.

Marco continues, “The northern plains were to be the point in which we vanquished the undead once and for all. There were… supposed to be troops there. Dozens of them. Not much time has passed, the battle should be happening even now.”

Jean mulls that over and shakes his head. “It’s not that simple you know. You humans are just… so naïve. Nothing is going to stop the undead as long as there’s a lich. If you beat them back, more will fall in their place. There’s no winning.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do then? Just let people die? Because I’ll be damned if I just sit around and let innocent people be slaughtered!”

“There’s just no consoling you, is there.”

“People are dying--!”

“Yes, yes, you’ve said that.” Jean thinks for a long moment. He had given up trying to detour the paladin. There was no stopping his self-righteous mind from trying to save people. But if where was a way to stop the undead…

“What if we kill the lich?” Marco says standing from Jean’s bed. “If we killed the lich, then wouldn’t that stop the undead?”

Jean snorts. “Well it would stop new undead from arising, yes. However, there’s a big downfall to that plan.”

“And what would that be?”

“Without a lich, then all of the already existing undead would no longer have orders to follow, therefore, would run completely rampant.”

“Then we just abolish the undead.”

“Marco, are you hearing yourself? You’re talking about slaying hundreds of thousands of undead, then, going on about killing one of the most powerful beings in existence? For Light’s sake man, it’s just not possible.”   

Marco is silent for a long moment before slumping back down onto Jean’s bed. Jean watches as the paladin battles with himself and feels sorry for him. It was true, there wasn’t much that could be done. Even if the lich were to be slain, with an army of mindless undead running about with no purpose but to devour and destroy, only Light knows what would happen to the rest of the world.

“So, what you’re saying, is that without the lich, the undead would be worse?”

“Far worse, I’m afraid. Even if it’s just a bit of direction, the lich leads them to at least somewhat of a destination. Without that aid, there’s no telling what they could be capable of. There always needs to be someone controlling the undead. In other words, there must always be a lich.”

“There must always be a lich…” The words tasted sour on Marco’s tongue. “What about the rumors, that the lich was one of our own, are they true?” Marco asks with a heavy tone.

Stories had told of a warlock that had gone mad in his attempts to gain necromantic powers. Although the plague of the undead was fairly new, they say that this necromancer had attained the power he was looking for and had thereby become this world’s lich. Although, no one was ever able to confirm such assumptions, many people had thought the tale a myth until the undead started appearing on inhabited land. It was only then, did the issue come to arise that the king and his troops must do something about the situation.  

“The stories are true.” Jean remarks with a sigh. “When I was training under Archmage Hanji Zoe, there were several investigations that had gone on about the undead threat. They traced the incidents back to a fel warlock named Marlowe Freudenberg. According the higher-ups, he had found some kind of helmet on an expedition to the north. They think it was imbrued with the essence of a demon. Sadly, that’s about all I know about the matter. I wasn’t exactly concerned with matters back then.”

“So, a warlock... I thought the king had put a stop to the warlocks and their practices.” Marco sighs and folds his hands. “From what I heard, the last known band of warlocks had all been laid to rest at the king’s troops.”

“It doesn’t take much to practice out of the king’s line of sight, I would know.”

Marco frowns. “Still, there must be something we can do here. What do you know about this Marlowe Freudenberg?”

“Nothing useful. All I know is that he had been among the troops to lead an expedition to the north.”

“I remember that expedition. There were… casualties. But why would they enlist the help of a warlock?”

“That, I don’t know. Perhaps nobody knew he was a warlock until later. I can’t imagine that the king would willingly entrust one with his soldiers.”

Marco straightens up and looks again to Jean’s crystal ball. The images of the broken plains still playing across the glass screen. Perhaps they were missing something. “Maybe we can find something if we go to where that expedition took place.”

Jean lets out a huff of disbelief. “To the north? Are you joking? I just escaped from that wrenched place, I’m not going back.”

“But there might be something there to uncover and put a stop to all this. Jean, you said you would help me.” Marco looks at Jean then with that same wide eyed and innocent stare he had before. Jean already knew he was going to give in. There was just something about that look, it made Jean weak, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Again, he blamed the lack of human contact, but he did deeply want to help Marco. Even if it was just to put his weary hopes to rest.

Jean heaves a heavy sigh and stands then walks to the hearth to light it. “Rest now Marco. We’ll go at first light. I at least want you to be well rested for this trip.”

Marco smiles a warm, stunning smile at him before laying back in Jean’s bed. “You’re a good man Jean, thank you.”

Jean replayed the paladin’s words in his head. _A good man_ , they would just have to see about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a long time coming. Sorry the update took so long, but I promise this story hasn't fizzled out quite yet. Thank you all for being so patient.

**Author's Note:**

> I've actually been wanting to put this up for a while and someone finally convinced me to do it. This is based on Blizzard's Death Knights because I absolutely adore them. Comments and Kudos always appreciated!


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